


now that I have your heart by heart

by what_on_io



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Memories, Minor Character Death, Minor Game Spoilers, Minor Injuries, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6570952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's been going down to the Vault more and more lately. Hancock has tried to deter her, but on the days he succeeds she draws into herself. He can’t even describe it - it isn’t anything verbal, or physical. She still seems content to lace their fingers together and press sloppy kisses to his neck. But she’s quieter, Hancock supposes, and looks wistfully in the direction of 111 when she thinks he isn’t looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Song For the Last Act_ by Louise Bogan. Find me on [tumblr](http://www.what-on-io.tumblr.com). I take prompts!

She’s been going down there more and more lately. Hancock watches her trudge the familiar path from Sanctuary from the roof of his favourite house. Truthfully he’d picked the spot out because it provided the best vantage point for observing her, after the first time he’d watched her drag herself out of her sleeping bag to walk the trail to her Vault. He’s noticed a pattern now - it only happens on the days they sleep separately, which is usually about two nights a week if she’s off with Cait or Garvey, and returns when it’s too dark to scope out his location and when she’s too tired to bother. Then she’ll collapse into her bag, leaving the comfier beds for her companion of choice, and sometimes, when he’s not too hazy from his late-night Jet fix, he’ll watch her slip underneath and zip herself up. Sometimes it’s with a sigh, sometimes she rolls right over and falls asleep almost instantly, sometimes she’ll look about herself as if she can’t fathom the world she’s landed herself in, and the fingers of her right hand will twine with her left, like she can’t bear the weight of her own company and has to imagine another presence. Sometimes Hancock wonders if it’s _his_ presence she’s after, her… Nate. Those nights he’ll occupy himself with another breath of Jet and crawl into his own sleeping place, a mattress in a hidden alcove of his house.

  
She always wakes up bright and early. It’s a habit he’d marked down from day one - she’s always up before him, fumbling to strap on her holsters and guns, hastily shoving her accumulated junk into a pack before he can witness the full extent of it - he always does berate her for her hoarding, and she rolls her eyes with what he can only call affection reflected in them. Being a light sleeper is a trait picked up easily in the Commonwealth, unless you want to wake up one morning with a whole lot of caps and a couple of limbs less than you started with.

  
Hancock never really picked up the habit, before. He’d had protection enough at the Old State House, always had people watching his back. He could manage a decent eight hours no problem, more if he was sleeping off a hangover or still feeling the after-effects of a Psycho high. A few months with Nora, though, and he’s like a damn puppy at 6 a.m., rolls out of bed as soon as a tentative hand comes into contact with his shoulder. His gravelly ‘mornin’ sunshine’ is always greeted with a ‘g’mornin’ yourself, handsome’ and a peck on the lips, as if she isn’t disgusted by the mottled ridges of his flesh first thing.

  
He hates it when they sleep apart, not that he’d ever say anything. Gives her time to think, time to realise that waking alone or at Cait’s feet is a damn sight preferable to waking next to his scarred face. The first time sleeping together when they first made it official, he’d been reluctant to slide under the covers next to her even after she’d patted the mattress beside her in a blatant invitation, and had made sure to fall asleep facing the wall of the shack they’d holed up in for the night. Still, when he’d woken with her head on his chest and her fingers sleepily tracing the contours of his cheekbones, he hadn’t been surprised - he’s drawn to her, like a fucking bloodbug to a vein.

  
Lately, he hates their sleeping arrangements for a whole new reason. It gives her chance to make her way down to that fucking Vault, with all its fucking memories and aches. Sure, he’s tried waking earlier with one of those crappy alarm clocks she’d salvaged and managed to get working again, sneaking down to her perch to brush her hair away from her face; hell, he’d greeted her with lukewarm coffee and Snack Cakes for breakfast once, like that isn’t a great way to start anyone’s day. But on those days she draws into herself. He can’t even describe it - it isn’t anything verbal, or physical. She still seems content to lace their fingers together and press sloppy kisses to his neck. But she’s quieter, Hancock supposes, and looks wistfully in the direction of 111 when she thinks he isn’t looking. He’s learning, though. He leaves the waking early to her, and by the time he does rise and shine she’s already back from her excursion, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, whatever the fuck that means. She throws old-world expressions around like they’re commonplace, like they’re not a couple of steps away from extinction, and he laps them up, because someone has to, and parrots them back to her just to enjoy the slow smile that spreads across her face.

  
She talks to Codsworth a lot more these days, too. Usually on her way back, the robot will wait for her by the furthest house, and Hancock will watch them as they chat while he lights up his first cigarette of the day. He has no idea what they talk about, but if he had to put money on it he’d say they reminisce, about the days _before_ , because she gets that sad smile on her face and fixes her gaze on her shoes. This is his cue to make his way downstairs and down the tree-leaden path that leads him to her, and he’ll slip an arm around her shoulders to hold her to him, as if he could be of any sort of comfort.

  
“C’mon, sunshine. You ready to hit the road?” he’ll ask, and Codsworth will bumble awkwardly through a metaphorical shoulder pat and warn Hancock that he better take care of mum.

  
“I got this, Cods,” he always replies, although he isn’t sure he has.

  
Today she’s taking longer than usual, and he doesn’t want to wait anymore. He takes a second to fix himself in the mirror - _great lot of fucking good that’ll do_ , he thinks disparagingly as he adjusts the angle of his tricorn to better shadow his face. As if a nice coat or a jerk of his hat will make any difference to his marred skin, to his black eyes, to the fact that everyone who sees him will automatically assume _feral_ , because, hell, he’s one step away, isn’t he?

  
Hancock walks her usual route through the trees, until he reaches the crest of the hill where her Vault lies. A couple of times he’s spied her sitting out here, with the elevator all the way down, dangling her feet over the chasm. She didn’t look down, not those times, but there’s always a chance, isn’t there? He’s terrified, truthfully, that one day she might decide that this life she’s ended up with just isn’t worth a damn anymore, and tip herself silently over the edge. Ain't like he's never thought of it himself, before she came along.

  
The lift is already down when he gets there, so he jabs at the button to bring it back up and steps onto the plate when it arrives, bracing himself for the cold, rattly journey down underground. He imagines Nora making the journey herself, that first time, shepherded along with the rest of the poor souls from before, sandwiched in beside her husband. He imagines the first mushroom cloud rising above those trees, imagines Nora holding her family close, imagines them jabbed with the butt of a laser gun inside the cryopods where they’d meet their crappy and wholly unspectacular end.

  
Sometimes he imagines it without the guns, and that’s somehow worse.

  
When the lift arrives he strides across the walkway and through the sliding doors, down a path he’s only ever walked once before, with Nora by his side, leading him by the hand. She’d wanted to show him where she’d come from, after Sanctuary, wanted to show him the pod she’d been locked in, and where they’d snatched her baby from her husband’s protesting arms. He sometimes marvels at her ability to trust anyone ever again.

  
He’s loathe to admit it, but the frozen corpses still spook him a little. Sure, he’s disposed of a lot of trash in his time, tossed corpses aside like they were nothing. 'Course, they all deserved it. It’s different here, seeing them trapped eternally in their final moments, a dawning acceptance of their new lives reflected in their dead eyes.

  
He finds Nora’s old pod with little effort, startling when he realises the room is empty. He ignores the dozens of frozen gazes that seem to follow him down the walkway, doesn’t stop until he reaches Nate’s pod, across from Nora’s open one. The smoothskin is preserved perfectly in his flawless state, caramel skin making way for dark, wavy hair, full lips and bright green eyes, still open in shock. There’s a bit of blood encrusted on his Vault suit, from where they’d hit him, but his skin hadn’t had time to bruise before they’d put him back on ice, and the bullet wound is barely visible beneath his collarbone.

  
“You had it all going for ya, didn’t you, kid?” Hancock whispers, trailing his browning, calloused fingertips along the pod’s glass. He hates the contrast, the way they look against Nate’s skin, but he doesn’t snatch them back. Not yet.

  
“What does she talk about, when she’s down here?” he wonders aloud, “I know she misses you. I’m pretty sure she’d give anything to go back to how it used to be, these days. Fat lot of good I can do, either; I’m only a constant fucking reminder. At least with Garvey or that fuckhead Danse she could pretend nothing much had changed. What’s she s’posed to do faced with a ghoul lover every fucking morning, eh?”

  
Hancock slumps down until he’s sitting with his back against Nora’s pod, staring up into Nate’s stupidly handsome face. He hopes he’d been good to her, before.

  
“Who am I kidding?” he spits, “Of course you were good to her. Everything she wanted. The perfect twenty-first century white-picket fence life, am I right? Me, I’ve never been one for the good life. I’ve spent my whole damn life running away from the good things,” he snorts derisively, wishing he’d brought some moonshine to make this damn conversation flow easier, “The bad things too, mind.’

  
“I’d never run from her, though. She’s made this miserable existence worth somethin’, y’know? Made me realise that this big bad wasteland ain’t as awful as it seems.”

  
He sighs, tipping his head back to rest against the steel of the cryopod. He’s ridiculous, Hancock thinks faintly, talking to a dead man. Maybe he’s losing it. Maybe the chems are finally catching up to him.

  
“I don’t know what I’ll do without her. ‘Cause she’ll leave eventually, you and I both know that damn well. If she doesn’t realise what kind of fucked up decision she’s made choosing me, of all people, she’ll throw herself into danger to get back to you.”

  
This time Hancock can’t bite back his bitter chuckle, “I’ve been a selfish bastard staying with her this long, but y’know what, Nate? I just can’t help myself when she’s around. I can’t keep my hands off her, for one thing - but you’d know all about that, wouldn’t ya, buddy?” He laughs again, raises his imaginary bottle to toast the other man, “Least with you she got something out of it. Me? I can’t give her kids, I can’t give her somethin' nice to look at… I can give her one hell of a ride, sure, but what use is that when any woman in their right mind would take a running jump at the sight of my prize jewels, hmm?”

  
He’s tearing up a little, the words tumbling out of his mouth faster than he can stop them. If he can only be this candid with a corpse, can he really kid himself that he’s stopped running from his problems?

  
_Fuck it_ , Hancock thinks. He’s come this far. Might as well go the whole fucking hog and throw in some real tears, for all the good it’ll do him.

  
“Fuck me, man. She spends most of her time down here now anyway. Not much point pretendin’ anymore, is there? I’m fucking losing her.”

  
“You’re not losing me, John.” Her voice comes from the doorway, and he jumps out of his sitting position into an instinctive crouch, shotgun in hand before he even realises he’s tugged it from its holster.

  
"Fuck, scared me for a second there, doll," he says as he straightens, easing out of his defensive stance. He's going for calm and collected, and scrubs the stupid tears from his face under the pretence of slipping the gun back into a shoulder-holster before she can get any closer and realise what a pathetic sap he's become.

  
"Sorry," she mumbles as she steps closer. They're still a fair way apart; she's barely inside the room - but he can see her face clear as day, "What are you even doing down here?"

  
"Ah - I ain't gonna lie to you, sister, I figured I'd come snooping after you. Always did wonder what you were doing down here all those times."

  
"I heard," she muses, smiling slightly. She takes another step, an arm outstretched to run her fingers along his forearm and up towards his shoulder, tugging him gently towards her.

  
"I don't miss him," she says then. Hancock makes to protest - of course she does, it's only natural, a bunch of meaningless platitudes at the ready on his tongue. For anyone else he wouldn't bother, but she's different, isn't she?- "Not like you think. It's- I've been saying goodbye."

  
Something tightens in his chest. _Goodbye_ ain't a word you wanna hear, not out here in the Commonwealth, not when _see you later_ would do just as well.

  
"To Nate, idiot," she says when he remains speechless, "I can't believe you thought I'd- what? Decide to end it all and find my long lost love in the great beyond? After everything, Hancock, really?"

  
The use of his surname jolts him back into himself, and Hancock brings a hand up to cup her jaw.

  
"Look, sister, I didn't exactly bank on you findin' me like this-"

  
"I know. But I'm glad I did."

  
"What, mopin' around like some fuckin' Vault-dweller?" The remark brings a soft chuckle from Nora, who slips her free arm around his waist to drag him closer, planting a chaste kiss to his barely-there lips.

  
"I had no idea I was hurting you like this, John. You could've said something."

  
"You ain't done nothin' to hurt me, sunshine-"

  
"I have. Maybe not intentionally, but I have. I just- I needed him to know-" she jabs a thumb in Nate's direction, but her eyes aren't sad this time, only soft, "-about us. It sounds stupid saying it out loud, but before Nate I hadn't been with anybody before, and after - well, there's only been you. I only ever wanted it to be you."

  
"You're gonna make a ghoul blush if you carry on like that, darlin'."

  
"I hope so," she grins, "Look, I was gonna stop. Eventually. But... it was kind of cathartic, coming down here, talking to him."

  
"I must admit, shooting the breeze with your late husband wasn't as awful as I'd expected," Hancock admits, tracing his fingers absently down her jaw to her collarbone.

  
"I just wanted to know he was okay with this. He'd want me to be happy, I think."

  
"Of course he would, love."

  
"I just needed some closure, I think. Being with you... It's brought up some stuff I never thought I'd have to face."

  
His heart stops, then, and he thinks that maybe this is it, maybe he's finally gone feral, and she'll have to leave him crumpled in a heap with a shotgun blast to the brain. But right after his heartbeat starts up again, double-time, and fuck of course she'd realise eventually, of course she's ending things now, of course 'you're not losing me' actually means 'I'm already gone'.

  
"Whoa, Hancock, are you okay?" She's worried now; there's concern pulling at her big blue eyes and a frantic hand on his shirt, loosening his collar as if to stave off a panic attack. Can ghouls get panic attacks, he wonders?

  
"I'm fine, darlin'. Don't you worry about me." There's a certain finality to his words, he thinks, and damn it he's never been much of a poet but he awards himself full marks for coherency and lyricism, there.

  
"Are you sure? Fuck, John, _breathe_!

He drags in a breath of stale, recycled oxygen and feels a little better. She drags him to sit down in a plastic chair in the hall, away from the empty eyes boring holes into his coat from the pods. When Nora goes to kneel in front of him he imagines a bizarre scenario in which their positions are reversed and he's begging her to stay - not that he'd ever wish that on her, not on Nora. Woman's got a tongue that can cut and reflexes that can do better than that, and she definitely deserves better than he can give her.

  
"What is it, love? Talk to me," she's murmuring, slipping the endearment in there as if it has any place anymore. He can only stare down at his boots mutely, wishing he'd never come down here in the first place.

  
"John, what have I said? Are you mad because I didn't tell you I was coming here? Because I came here at all? What is it?"

  
"Mad? At you, love? Never," he vows, struggling with the pocket of his coat to slip a syringe of Med-X out. God knows he'll need something to numb the pain, God knows he already does. He's fumbling with his long sleeves to find a vein when she halts him with a hand on his arm and questions in her eyes.

  
"What the fuck, John? Are you hurt?"

  
_No, but I'm gonna be. Oh, how I'm gonna be_ , he thinks. He can't say it aloud, though, can't form the words.

  
"I'm just peachy, doll," he says, finally succeeding in drawing his sleeve back enough to position the needle at the crook of his elbow. After all this time it doesn't even hurt anymore, not even a flicker of pain at the insertion. _Good_ , he thinks.

  
"I'm sorry I let us carry this on for so long, sunshine. Always knew you were too good for me." He finds the words somewhere in his hazy painless state, bites them out through clenched teeth.

  
"Are you breaking up with me?" she only sounds mildly incredulous at the possibility, eyebrows quirked in question. He snorts in response.

  
"Like I ever could. I'm givin' ya an out. I knew you'd need one eventually, doll."

  
"Have you listened to a single word I said? John - I love you. Why would I need an out?"

  
"But- you just said you're facing things you never wanted to. Bein' with me."

  
"And how is that your fault?" She shakes her head, massaging the bridge of her nose between an index finger and thumb, "Hancock, I meant some things I'd been burying. In the past. With my husband. Maybe if I hadn't fallen for you, they could've stayed buried. I don't know. But they've come out now, and it's- hell, John, it's nothing bad about you, alright? I can't believe you still doubt us, after all this, but- I think it's gonna be easier for me to just show you."

  
"Show me what?"

  
"My life with Nate wasn't everything you think it is, Hancock."


	2. Two

The Memory Den is almost empty when they get there. It's weird being back in Goodneighbour at all, weird seeing familiar faces grin back at him and having arms raised to him in waves and mock salutes. He revels in the attention, of course - he always did enjoy being mayor, having in equal parts the adoration and frantic awe of his public.

  
Nora leads the way, though, receiving almost as many reverent handshakes as Hancock does. He's done pretending he wears the pants in this relationship - the woman has herself a reputation across the 'Wealth, and it'd take more than a ghoul - even one as demanding of respect as he may be - to intimidate her into anything.

  
"Hey, Irma," Nora greets as soon as they step inside. The woman lifts a lazy arm in greeting, taking a long drag of her cigarette before speaking.

  
"Doc Amari's downstairs, as if you couldn't guess. I'm assuming you need her for something?"

  
"Actually, you'll do just as well. Think you can hook me up to a pod? And maybe to one of the video screens, too?"

  
"For you, honey? Anything," Irma smiles. Hancock frowns to himself - does Nora have everyone wrapped around her little finger in his town, or is he seeing things? Irma won't even let _him_ use the pods for free, and he's the goddamn mayor.

  
"Somethin' in particular you wanna see?" Irma asks, tapping at a nearby terminal to unlock the closest pod. Nora blushes a little, stammers something under her breath that neither of the room's other occupants can even pretend to hear.

  
Clearing her throat, she repeats, "It's just a little private, Irma. Between John and I. If you wouldn't mind leaving us alone for a teensy few minutes?"

  
Irma gives her a scolding glance, then grins, patting Nora's shoulder, "Anything for you, doll. I'll close up shop as soon as you're hooked up."

  
The resulting grin is infectious, and Hancock leans down to whisper, "If you're up for sharin' the secret of what makes that woman tick, I'm all ears, sunshine."

  
Nora just smiles back at him. There's something nervous in her eyes now, and she stumbles a little as she backs up into the pod, easing into the chair before the glass panel comes down above her. Irma clicks away at the terminal and a vidscreen flickers to life, asking them to PLEASE STAND BY. With a wink, Irma leaves them to it.

  
The screen shows a small apartment, obviously pre-war, when it blurs into a corporeal image. It's cluttered with huge furniture that makes the whole place look too small, papers and folders littering a small coffee table where a young couple sit, pens poised. It takes Hancock a second to realise that the man and woman are in fact Nate and Nora, only much younger than he's ever seen them.

  
"Shit, I can't get anymore into my head, Nate," Nora mutters, dragging a hand through her cropped brown hair. Nothing about her is the same, except those eyes and that voice, and it's so strange to hear it coming from this other person.

  
"Hey, we have plenty of time before finals, Nor. Weeks. You wanna take a break?" Nate replies, smiling hesitantly. She nods, groaning, and reaches for a bottle of beer on the table, tipping her head back to take a swig.

  
"I've been wanting to talk to you about something, actually," Nate says, "We're almost done with college. Once finals are over... We're free to do whatever. So I figure, why not get married?"

  
It's hardly a grand proposal, Hancock thinks, but maybe that's what she'd been after. Memory-Nora looks happy, anyway. Her lips curl into a small smile.

  
"Oh yeah? Where's my ring, then?"

  
"Well, I didn't wanna get one just yet in case you said no. Can't afford to throw money away, can we? But we could go shopping next week if you want."

  
"Oh." Now the smile has faded a little, and it looks like a conscious effort to keep it in place, "Well, sure, then. Let's get married!"

* * *

 

  
The memory ends when she kisses his cheek, and Hancock can hardly bear to look when the next one arrives. It's dark in the apartment now, and they've relocated to the bedroom. Nate flicks a bedside light on as they kiss - something Hancock still isn't brave enough to do, not with Nora, not yet.

  
"Glad finals are over, huh?" Nora breathes as they kiss. Thankfully they're hidden by the duvet, but there's enough groaning going on that Hancock can infer what's happening beneath the covers, "Some stress relief after _all- that- hard- work_ -"

  
"Unnghh," seems to be Nate's only response. She giggles a little, hand sliding between them under the covers, and Nate's eyes shoot open, wide and alert, lips curling around a pleased hiss. His hips start thrusting without his say-so, judging by the wild look in his eyes.

  
For a second, Hancock is outraged that she's making him watch this. As if he needs to see the desire in her eyes when she kisses his smooth skin, pecks at the stubble collecting at his chin. As if he needs another reminder that he's nothing compared to Nate, that he can't be what she needs-

  
"That good? You like that, babe? Uh-uh, not yet. We ain't even started-"

  
"Nora, stop _talking_ , God-"

  
"Why, baby? You gonna come if I keep it up, huh?"

  
"Nora, you're putting me off my rhythm-"

  
"You don't like it?" She's still teasing, but there's doubt in her face. Hancock knows her enough to recognise it, but Nate's too far gone to see.

  
"Sure I do, but Nora, fuck, I just can't concentrate when you're talking to me. It's gonna have to be one thing or the other. You know I love you, but if you expect me to keep going-"

  
"Alright, alright. I'll stop."

  
"Good."

  
They fuck in silence, then, and Hancock doesn't really envy Nate a bit.

* * *

 

  
The next memory is brighter - the screen displays the lounge of a larger house, painted in sunlight. If Hancock squints right, he figures it could be back in Sanctuary - there are the blue wall panels, and the shape of the counters... And then there's Nora, standing with her back to the screen, watching out of the window. It all looks pretty fucking idyllic - and then he spots her left hand caressing her swollen belly, and it hits her that this is Nora, pregnant.

  
Somehow he couldn't imagine it, before. She doesn't seem to fit the part, in his head, but seeing her like this it's obvious that _mother_ suits her just as well as _badass_ or _handy with a gun_.

  
Still, she doesn't look happy. There's something in the pull of her lips, a tightening around her eyes, that Hancock surprises himself by noticing. There's an open Mr. Handy box by her feet, parts scattered around the floor, as if she'd been assembling them and just given up suddenly.

  
When the door opens a few seconds later, it's clear why. Nate ambles through the hallway, stops when he sees her there, his eyes flickering between the bot parts and her face.

  
"You're home late," she says, striding across the room to kiss his cheek. He blushes a bit, scratches at the stubble growing on his jaw.

  
"Got caught up at the office. Sorry. You got started without me, though?" He gestures to the parts, crouching to pick up a metal eye socket.

  
"Yeah. Imagined I'd have it all ready for when you got back, but, uh. Harder than it looks."

  
Nate gives a sort of smile, and backs up to lean on the arm of the couch, still fiddling with the eye.

  
"You shouldn't strain yourself. I'll take a look at it later. Get it up and running before the baby decides to come along."

  
"Oh, don't worry about it. I should have time tomorrow - I just got so frustrated with the darn manual. I could probably build it better with no instructions at all, these are ridiculous."

  
"They make 'em like that for a reason, Nora, for you to follow them. You shouldn't be getting worked up, not with the baby an' all."

  
"I'm fine, Nate. Just a silly manual. Now what do you want for dinner? I have that roast beef..."

* * *

 

  
The memory fades out, replaced by another. It's night-time, dark out, and Nora's in the nursery, looking down at a pink-faced baby wearing rocket-ship pyjamas. He's crying, waving tiny fists around in the air, and she sighs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she bends to pick him up. Her hair's longer than it is now, Hancock muses, and dark brown instead of blonde. This whole experience is fuckin' surreal, if you ask him.

  
"Come on, Shaun. Please, go to sleep. For momma, Shauny, please don't cry. Everything's alright."

  
"Nora?" The sleepy voice comes from the other room, and Hancock can only guess that it's Nate.

  
"Sorry honey. He just won't go off..."

  
"I have work at six, Nora," Nate replies with a groan. She wrings her hands, glancing around the room, finally spying one of those monkey dolls sitting on the bureau and pushing it toward the baby.

  
"Here, baby, here's Jangles. Hey, you like him? Don't cry, sweetheart, just go off to sleep. Nothing to worry about. Please, Shauny-"

  
"Look, baby, can't you take him into the lounge? I can't sleep through another shift, Nora."

  
"Nate, there's nothing I can do-"

  
"Look, I know it's not your fault, but it's the third night this week-"

  
The argument fades into indistinct murmurs, and the memory ends.

* * *

 

The next opens at sunset, and Nate sitting on the couch while a shiny Codsworth fusses with the crib, humming a tune in his metallic voice for the baby. Nora is cooking, stirring something lumpy in a pot on the stove.

  
"Nora, why don't you let Codsworth handle that for you? S'what he's here for, after all, aren't you Cods?"

  
"Happy to help, mum," Codsworth interjects.

  
"It's fine. I've hardly been doing anything around here anymore. Figured I could at least rustle up some good grub."

  
"The whole point of a robot butler is that you get to rest a little, baby. Put your feet up."

  
"All's I've been doing is putting my feet up, hon. I can't stand another second of this maternity leave malarky. I might enquire about going back to work..."

  
"Nora, do you really think that's a good idea? It's only been a few weeks. I say you need to rest a while longer, take some time to connect with Shaun-"

  
"Oh, like you've connected with him? You're always working, Nate, and Codsworth's doing a fine job of taking care of him, as you pointed out! I need to get my life back-" her reply is acerbic, biting. It would make even Hancock squirm, if directed at him. Nate simply narrows his eyes.

  
"Shaun is your life now, Nora!"

  
"He should be your life too!" she shouts back. The baby starts crying, and Nora sighs, raking hands through her hair again. Nate looks shocked.

  
"It's different when it's a mother-"

  
"Yeah, well, it shouldn't be."

  
"I'm sorry, baby-"

  
"Oh look, it's fine. Just leave it, yeah?"

* * *

 

  
With that, the vidscreen flickers into an intermission, and there are a few seconds' pause before the next memory starts up. This time it's post-war, everything is tarnished and wrecked and so goddamn familiar Hancock could cry.

  
He's sitting with Nora in an abandoned shack, somewhere up West if he remembers correctly. She'd cut herself up pretty bad with some shrapnel, right under her left shoulder, and he's sitting at her back applying the bandages.

  
"Damn it, sunshine, this is gonna make a real pretty scar," his own voice echoes back at him, gravelly and low, "Couple more and you might end up lookin' like me."

  
"You flatter me, baby. I could never be as handsome as you," Nora grins, reaching to help him hold the gauze, "I must have one for every limb, now, surely. Think my left thigh's still missing a bullet-hole - maybe if I ask those super-mutants nicely?"

  
"Ah, I'm sure they'll be all too happy to provide, sunshine. I think I've patched you up best I can, now. Bleeding's stopped at least. You wanna finish up yourself?" He hands her the Stimpak and watches her apply it, needle sinking into her upper arm. She prefers to do this part herself, prefers some sort of control over injuries that she can't reach to tend to.

  
"Thanks, Hancock. Y'always do come through for me," she echoes, and the memory fades.

  
The next one is shortly after, and they're fighting a bunch of raiders. A request from Garvey, probably. Hancock's about to step inside a rusty diner to reload, and she spies the trip-wire before he does. Nora's hand reaches out to grab his sleeve, drags him back just in the nick of time before the front counter explodes.

  
"Fuck, sister, that was a close one. Thanks," he replies, and she grins. When he reaches the doors to the underground station before she does, Hancock steps back to allow her through.

  
"Ladies first, then," he grins. She smacks his arm, gun squeezed in a teacup grip, and slams the doors open with her shoulder, and they blaze the place up in a haze of flame and bullets. Even watching them fight, Hancock marvels at how in sync they are with each other - they weave and duck around each other, never getting in the way. Twice he elbows her out of harm's way, and once she does the same for him. The flash ends with a mine explosion from somewhere not far off, and they're both panting from the exertion and grinning fiercely when the last of the raiders goes down, and the memory halts.

* * *

 

  
The next is jarring. Diamond City, the rusted-out baseball diamond, in all its peeling glory, and they're up top in the stands looking down at his brother's synthetic corpse. Nora's hand is on his wrist, and Piper's stood off to the side massaging her temples with one hand, and that secretary from McDonough's office is staring at the body with tears drying on her face. Hancock himself looks stunned in a way he barely remembers feeling. _Fuck_ , he thinks now, _way to wear your fuckin' heart on your sleeve, John_. He hears himself distantly, making some supposedly witty remark, although his voice is hollow.

  
He's not sure how he feels about it even now, to tell the truth. His brother had been an asshole when he was alive. But, hell, he hadn't even realised that his own flesh and blood had been replaced with something not flesh and blood at all. What kind of brother, what kind of _person_ does that make him?

  
"I'm sorry, John," he hears Nora say. She has a hand on his chin to tip his face up to look at her, and to his horror there are tears there. The bastard doesn't deserve tears, of all the fucking things.

  
"Not your fault, sunshine. He was gone long before we got here," Hancock replies, bitterly.

  
"This wasn't your fault either, y'know," she tells him, "The Institute were good. Hell, only Piper really figured out what was going on, and she has the nose for it." Her joke falls on deaf ears, and Nora glances down at the floor, "Look, I mean- I know you've been through some shit with him. I know how crappy that must've been. But it's okay to grieve, John."

  
"Bastard was never much of a brother to me even when he was alive," Hancock replies, "But maybe I should've been better to him, too."

  
"I'm here, if you ever want to talk about it. About him."

  
"Appreciate it, sunshine. I just- I don't know how to fuckin' feel. Or what to think. He drove those ghouls out of town, shitty motherfucker that he was. But how am I supposed to know if it was even _him_? I don't even know who to be mad at," Hancock laughs harshly.

  
"Be mad at the whole damn world if you need to be, John. Just not at yourself, okay? None of this is on you. You couldn't have known."

  
When he kisses her, Hancock remembers that it tastes like grape mentats and brahmin steak. He never wants it to end.

* * *

 

  
Now they're in some dusty old room at the Rexford, pillowed on a creaky four-poster to watch the radstorm outside. The sky is illuminated a sickly green colour - like the Northern Lights, she'd pointed out at the time, although Hancock hasn't a fucking clue what they are. He'd mmm-ed anyway, kissed the tip of her nose in thanks for the tidbit.

  
"You should get some kip, sister. Up an' at 'em early tomorrow," Hancock hears himself say. Nora's already rolled over to face the window past his body, head propped on her arm.

  
"Mmm, you too," she murmurs, eyes still open. He watches himself stroke her hair - this isn't long after they got together, and his fingers are still a little nervous. She smiles and leans into the touch, though, presses a tiny kiss to each one of the fingertips of his right hand in turn.

  
They both drop off eventually, Hancock first. Nora stays awake a while longer, watching the storm, before her own eyes droop closed of their own accord and she sleeps. Present-Hancock isn't entirely sure of the point of this memory if she's only going to slumber through it, but before long Nora's wide-eyed and sitting bolt upright in bed, mouth open in a sudden scream. He watches while she gets her breath back, even now aching to reach out to her, offer what little comfort he can. Memory-Hancock comes to groggier than he'd like, but he's instantly alert at the sound of Nora's cries, an arm slipping around her shoulders to hold her close.

  
"Shit, sunshine, are you alright?"

  
"Fuck. Yeah. Bad dream," she breathes, barely audible even now, "Sorry I woke you."

  
"No need to apologise, sister. Deep breaths now, you got it? Don't want you hyperventilatin' on us now, do we?" He's dropped his voice to a murmur, squeezes her shoulder lightly.

  
She breathes with him, panic slipping from her eyes, "Hancock, we have to get up soon. Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I'll be fine in a sec."

  
"Not 'til you drop off again, sunshine. We got loads of time. Just breathe, I got ya."

  
"I love you," she says, and it's the first time all over again, and both Hancocks are stunned into silence. She laughs a bit at Memory-Hancock's face, lips slightly parted, and she kisses him there.

  
"You gonna make a girl wait to hear it back? Playing hard to get, I like it," she grins, sliding back down under the covers. Hancock slides with her, opening and closing his mouth like an idiot guppy.

  
"Ya even need to hear me say it?" he huffs, "Fuck, sunshine. I got it bad for you."

  
"I know how that feels," she whispers, and the memory slides away.

* * *

 

The Den is quiet then, except for Nora's pod sliding open with a hiss. Hancock's moving over to her without thinking, his brain on a separate mission from the rest of his body. She clambers out of the chair and into his arms and he holds her for a long moment in which neither of them speak.

  
"Nate was never my perfect partner, John," she tells him in a murmur. He can't help but feel a twinge at the mention of his name, but it's hardly as violent as before.  
Hancock doesn't know quite what to say, so he stays silent, tracing a hand up and down her side, mapping the pattern of her ribs.

  
"He had his opinions of what a family should be, and how people should act. He was traditional in that way, I guess. A woman's duty should be to the family and the kitchen," she snorts derisively, sniffing a little when she looks up at him, "I never really fit the mould he wanted me to. Law school was just the first straw. When I wanted to go back to work after Shaun... He wasn't best pleased. I think the only reason he wanted to marry me was to please his parents, so we'd look like the perfect package. It just never really felt that way."

  
"I suppose I misjudged, then," Hancock says, still avoiding her eyes. He feels like an idiot, following her down to the Vault, making her explain herself.

  
"You, John... You're everything. Surely you see that."

  
"I-I'm glad you feel that way, sunshine. Like I said, karma's doin' a crappy job atonin' for my bucketload of sins."

  
"Don't be ridiculous. You're a good person, John Hancock. The very best variety."

  
"Sometimes I just wonder what you see in me, when you have your pick of the whole fuckin' Commonwealth. Hell, everyone back home's itching to get into your pants, sunshine. I'm half expectin' a scrap to break out between MacCready an' Cait some days."

  
"Nah, you really think?" Nora giggles, breathless, "Well, it doesn't matter. I only want you, handsome. My dearest Hancock." She punctuates the words with a kiss, leaning on tiptoe to press her lips to his. His arms slide around her waist and he makes no move to stop them.

  
"Well, somebody's gotta take care of you when what little sight you're retaining goes, right?"

  
"Hey! I'm not going blind, thank you very much. Ask anyone here, they'll tell you. You're so hot it makes my knees weak."

  
Right now he'd blush if he could. Instead he huffs a laugh against her cheek, nuzzles down into her neck to place soft kisses to the skin there. Hell, she smells so good. By all rights she shouldn't smell like that, all those days spent slopping through mud and shit and getting covered in blood and worse. But she smells like outside - like pine wood and wildflowers.

  
Fuck, he's gettin' soft.

  
"I hope you ain't expectin' a ring, sweetheart," he mutters to contradict the feeling swelling in his stomach. It's pointless anyway - if she wanted a ring he'd damn well give her one; he'd find a fucking park somewhere and wait until sunset and get down on one fucking knee if it'd make her happy. He half-expects her to demand a white wedding, then, but Nora, ever-surprising, erupts into sudden laughter.

  
"Hell, no. One marriage was quite enough, thanks. Although... I guess I can stop wearing this, now." She's twisting her wedding band around her finger, chewing her lip pensively. He watches as she slips it off, tucking it into a pocket for safekeeping.

  
"You don't have to, sunshine," Hancock breathes, although the fact that she's taken it off - _for him_!, a voice reminds him - makes something in him swell.

  
"It's time, John. Nate's the past. You're my future," she says, then- "Damn, that was corny. Shall we get the fuck out of here? I think I need to kill some super-mutants after that little bout of soul searching."

  
He grins, slipping his withered hand into her soft one, and whispers, "Couldn't agree more, darlin'."


End file.
